Black Narcissus
by Psyx
Summary: weird fluff thingy I wrote...Although with the latter part it turns angsty and morbid... FarfxNagi, SchuxBrad coming up!
1. Default Chapter

Cathedral Black Narcissus

Warnings- citrus, hinty lemon, really weird fluff at the beginning, and crap dialogue.

Disclaimer – These characters are not mine, however much I want them to be! And I'm not making any money in any way, so don't sue me!

Schuldich woke up. It had been a pleasant sleep, filled with dreams of a certain black-haired American, and the sun was shining in through the window in his bedroom. Straight into his face, at 5am. He sighed as he flung his legs out of bed. It wasn't exactly the start he usually enjoyed. He was a 'sleep until Armageddon comes, then yell at it for making so much noise' kinda guy. Bleary eyed, he grabbed some clothes and a bandana off the back of a chair, and put them on. Then, he opened the door.

It didn't. He tried again. It was locked. He sighed again, and ran his hand through his untameable orange excuse for hair.

"FARFELLO! I know you're out there!" The sound of a knife-obsessed Irishman not making any noise answered. "Oh come on! We've been through this before, me being locked in here does NOT hurt god!" He grinned to himself. "In fact, Farfie, me being locked in here makes god happy! He doesn't like it when I can roam freely, causing pain everywhere I go...Plus, I'll get you some nuns to hurt if you let me out..."

As Schuldich spoke, he reached out for Farfello's mind, as twisted and as warped as it was, he could still do something with it. As he probed at the first layer, all he got was images of shiny metal sheets, then, as he tried to delve further into the lunatic's mind, met a solid barrier.

"Nyuuuh! (Author's Note: Nyuuuh is my general sound of annoy-ment...is that a word?) Farfello! Why can't I get inside your head?" He was beginning to panic. All his freedom, and the nearest mind that could set him free was all but impenetrable. The door opened a crack, and a sliver of golden iris appeared.

"So, Schuldich can't get into my thoughts?"

"No Schuldich bloody well can't! Why not?" He was pressed up against the doorframe, about a centimetre from the luminous eye. He could hear the smug smile in Farfello's voice.

"Brad's idea! He told us to lock you in while he went out..."

"Till when? When's he coming back??" His voice was rising in panic. Farfello took people literally, and he wouldn't let Schuldich out until Crawford got back...Then something hit him. Since when had Farfello called Crawly 'Brad'?

"I don't know. But we can let you out now!" There was the scraping of a chair being pulled back and a chain being unhooked, and then the door was suddenly opened. Schuldich, who had been throwing his weight at the door, fell flat. He looked up at his untimely hero, and...

"WHAT IN THE NAME OF ANYTHING YOU HOLD DEAR ARE YOU DOING WITH A TINFOIL CONE ON YOUR HEAD?!"

"You mean my knives?"

"What? That's not a knife..."

"You said in the name of anything I hold dear. So I think you mean my knives."

"Fine! What in the name of your knives are you doing with a tinfoil cone on your head?" Schuldich stood up, again running his hand through his hair, as he often did in times of severe insanity. For the second time that morning, realisation dawned upon him with the subtlety of a brick in the face.

"Please tell me that...**thing** wasn't Crawford's idea..." Farfello grinned.

"Tinfoil hats hurt God." Schuldich buried his head in his arms.

"Kill me. Kill me now."

"Okay!"

"What?? NOOOOO!!!" Farfello did, apparently, take things very literally.

After half an hour of playing homicidal hide-and-slaughter with Farfello, screamed promises of rotting rats and nuns to play with finally persuaded the Irishman that maybe killing Schuldich wasn't a good idea.

Schuldich flung himself on the sofa, utterly exhausted, and nicotine deprived. He dug around in his pockets, searching for the habitual crushed packet of cigarettes and lighter. He couldn't find them.

"Damn... where are they..." He stopped his frantic searching when he caught a movement out the corner of his eye. Oh no, please no more... Schuldich now understood why Farfello's victims always looked terrified. Instead, he saw a rapidly retreating Nagi.

"NAGI! Come back here!" Nagi flinched as Schuldich yelled at him. He turned back round and entered the living room, facefaulting when he saw Schuldich's expression. For once, he was glad that Crawford had made them do something stupid, ie: the hats. At least now Schuldich couldn't convince him that it would be a wonderful idea to jump off a cliff.

"Nagi, I promise not to set Farf on you if you tell me where my cigs are."

"Ah, but Farfello's onto greater things. Crawford's promised him a new set of knives if he doesn't kill anyone today."

"Damn! So is there any chance I can bribe y..."

"Nope. That's why we were told to lock you in. Crawly wanted to see how you coped with controlling us with telepathy. Or cigarettes."

Schuldich began to pale. He had problems coping for an **hour** without a smoke, and now Crawford expected him to go for a **day**? That was just too much...

"So, I'm just going to get a coffee..." Schuldich began to sidle towards the doorway, and then broke into a sprint for the front door, desperate to get out of this cigarette-devoid-lunatic-infested-hellhole.

"HE'S TRYING TO GET OUT! STOP HIM!"

Schuldich rounded the corner, at top speed, then ran headlong into Farfello, who promptly waved a knife at him. Schuldich ran in the opposite direction.

"Chasing Schuschu hurts God!"

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!! NAGIIIIIIII!!! HE'S TRYING TO KILL MEEEEEEEEEE!!!!"

After another couple of hours, Schuldich was a sobbing heap on the floor. Alternately being hunted by Farfello, and Nagi trying to get a tinfoil hat on him, and lack of cigarettes did not make up to be good for his emotional stability. Farfello was watching him with interest. He'd found a new way of causing pain on God. He liked it. It also meant that he didn't have to bleach all his clothes to get all the blood out.

Schuldich sat up sharply. He sniffed the air. Someone, somewhere in this apartment was smoking. And smoking meant...

"CIGARETTES!!! GIVE THEM TO ME!!!" Schuldich went from nearly flat on the floor to upright and running in under a second. Farfello's room was devoid of any form of tobacco. Nagi was flicking through some magazine on his bed, looking surprised at Schuldich's new battle cry. He dashed out the room, the hall was empty, so was the bathroom, and the kitchen...

And the kitchen was home to a tinfoiled Crawford, holding a smoking cigarette. Schuldich clutched at the doorframe, his knees buckling under the sight of two of his most favourite objects looking infinitely more appealing than ever before.

"You want, Schuldich?" Brad cocked his eyebrow, and held up the smoking cylinder.

"Karghh..." Schuldich's throat closed up on him, denying any possibility of coherent speech.

"Well, okay, if you come and get it... I suppose you've done well..." Crawford grinned, his glasses flashing in the fluorescent light. Schuldich recognised the signs, and stopped in his tracks.

"No! The shiny glasses! That means you're being evil!"

"Oh, but I am!" The black-haired American drew on the cigarette hard, filling his lungs with the intoxicating smoke, and held it there. Almost in slow motion he moved his hand over the sink, and let go.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!"

Schuldich leapt at the metal sink, but the deed was done, and the dog-end was sodden and beyond the help of any amount of drying and careful attention. He looked up with pure evil in his eyes.

Using all his childhood sports lessons, he leapt and rugby tackled Crawford to the cheap lino tiles. Schuldich sat on the other man's chest, and while the other man was temporarily stunned, snatched his glasses and the offending tinfoil hat.

"Aha! Now, tell me where the rest of the pack is, and I'll give them back." Schuldich reminisced back to the days of the playground, where he could always 'persuade' the others to give him their sweets... Damn, he'd been one fat kid...

He looked down as Brad he began to laugh. He was getting desperate. Crawly had the cigarettes, and he wasn't going to tell him where they were.

"Don't make me go in your head! You know I can!" Schuldich narrowed his eyes

"Well, do it then, I don't care!" Frustrated, Schuldich abruptly pushed into the American's mind, speeding past images of shiny glasses and lots of money, until...

"Ahhhhhhhhh!" Schuldich flung himself backwards off Crawford. "Jesus! Über was war die Hölle alle das? " Too shocked to answer in English, he spoke German, fast and light. He dropped the glasses, winking in the light.

Crawford sat up, and casually caught his glasses before they hit the floor. "Well, you saw what I two nights ago, and I thought I'd better make it happen..." Schuldich was wide-eyed and staring.

"So, you foresaw that? And you made it happen? I know you **really** don't like me, but I never thought even you were **that** sadistic!" Crawford grinned back at him with a pretty good impersonation of Schuldich's own infuriating grin. "So they're both through there?"

"Yep! Let's go join them!" Crawford stood up as he spoke, brushing at some invisible dirt on his suit.

"What?? No way! You may play your torture games by yourself, but don't involve me!" Brad sighed, and lunged for Schuldich's nearest limb, which happened to his ankle. "Let go! I hate you! Get off my foot! LET GO OF ME!"

"No. You're going to come if it kills you!" He dragged Schuldich out of the kitchen, and into the wooden floored hall. Crawford paused for thought. "Nah, that's too nasty, just severely maim you for a while." He continued dragging the struggling German, intent on getting him to the living room. Schuldich had other ideas. He grabbed onto every item of furniture within reach, and held on dear life. Just before they reached the closed door, Brad let go of Schuldich's ankle and grabbed his shoulder.

"Now, I think you want to preserve your dignity, so I suggest you go in upright."

"Bradley Jacob Crawford, I have been chased by a mad knife-waving Irishman wearing a tinfoil hat, been subjected to the torture of trying to lock me in my room, had an emotional breakdown, Nagi trying to get a mind-blocking hat on me, **and** no cigarettes, the last of which, you cruelly destroyed before my very eyes. You people have seen me at my worst, somehow, I think being dragged in won't make much difference to my non-existent dignity." Crawford shrugged.

"I live with you 24/7. We're equal. Well, if you're sure that it won't make a difference..." Crawford grabbed hold of Schuldich's ankle again.

"NO! I'll walk! I will!" Schuldich stood up hastily. "Can I have at least one..."

"No." Brad pointed at the shut door. "Go." Schuldich lifted a wavering hand, and pushed the door open sharply, determined to get this over with and find a hundred cigarettes somewhere. He flinched, eyes shut tight before the noise hit him.

"SURPRISE!" Farfello and Nagi had bedecked the room, and themselves in Farfello's case, in shiny helium balloons and streamers. The bright colours nearly blinded him, and that was saying something, considering he looked at his highlighter-orange hair every day in the mirror. He fell onto the nearest sofa.

"I hate birthdays."

"Sorry we were so nasty Schu! But we all wanted you to remember today!" Nagi was super-super-deformed.

"I'm not sorry...OW!" Brad had sharply elbowed Farfello in the ribs before he could finish his sentence. Farfello glared at the American, the only reason he wasn't killing him was that the helium balloons had pinned his arms to his sides.

"I'm sure I'll remember it. I'll have nightmares for the rest of my life..."

"Don't be so sour Schuldich! We've got lots to do! Methinks it's time for CAKE!" Nagi wheeled a cake trolley round in front of Schuldich. He gaped. It was huge. **Huge!** All covered in thick icing and marzipan, he was drawn to the top of the creation, which seemed more like architecture than food. Instead of candles, 23 cigarettes were lit and pushed into the icing.

"I love you all!" He snatched several smokes off the top, and shoved them in his mouth. His eyes glazed over in a sheer nicotine-rush and began burbling words of devotion and worship.

"Don't love us, it was Crawly's idea!" Farfello took advantage and managed to stun Schuldich into silence, and embarrassed Brad utterly. He turned a nice shade of beetroot.

"Is the fact I can cook such a surprise?" He was now getting defensive.

"No, it's just that, well, you're not exactly the typ..." Schuldich began to have hysterics on the sofa as he suddenly presented himself with the image of Brad in an apron and oven mitts. In a lull in his laughter, he put the image into the other three men's heads. Nagi and Farfello both began to roll around on the floor. (Not in that way you sick pervy yaoi-fans! But nice idea...grins) Crawford death stared them all into the grave and beyond, then began to turn to leave.

"No! Sorry Brad, I like it! Really, I do!" He leapt off the sofa and draped himself around the American's shoulders, preventing him from going any further. "Please stay? Please?" Crawford sighed. A non-obnoxious Schuldich was just too nice to not disobey. Doing so would be like kicking a puppy. He turned back, to face the others.

"As long as none of you ever mention the fact that I made it to anyone, **ever**, I will."

"Yay!" Schuldich went chibi and grinned, relishing any contact with Brad.

"**And** someone passes me a cigarette." Ever to happy to oblige, Schuldich, still draped around his shoulders, held his own cigarette to Crawford's mouth. Brad drew on it, and then looked at the other two on the floor.

"Yes, I smoke! Just I didn't want clingy Herr Clingerson here finding out cause he'd steal my fags!"

"Hey! I wouldn't! And I'm not clingy!" Schuldich took a pull at the cigarette and blew a smoke ring.

"Then why are you still wrapped round me?"

"Oh." Schuldich let go fast, and to cover his embarrassment, pulled a half-gone cigarette from the top of the cake, and handed it to Brad. Farfello, the ever curious, also took a cigarette and impaled it on his favourite knife.

"Let me guess, it hurts God?" Farfello nodded sagely. Nagi rolled his eyes.

"I saw that!" Nagi got up and edged away from the glaring Farfello. To diffuse the situation before Nagi started running, Brad yelled.

"HEY! How about we eat some cake, rather than smoke it?"

"I like that idea, Mr Crawford. Who's got a knife?"

"Stupid question Schu."

After a feeding frenzy, the four of the Schwarz team were all soporific, Farfello and Nagi almost asleep, Brad slumped against the sofa, smoking the last cigarette still impaled on Farfello's knife, and Schuldich lying on the floor hazily wondering where the button on his trousers had gone. A self-imposed reflex kicked into action somewhere deep inside his mind. He began to grope around his person for a pack of cigarettes. Not surprisingly, he didn't find any. He rolled over, and pulled himself up onto his elbows. He took the cigarette from Crawford, drew on it, then passed it back.

"You know, we really need some more of these. You have any more?"

"Nah, I put the last on the cake."

"Crap. You have any money on ya?"

"Nah."

"Double crap. I'll fix it. Silk cut or Reds?"

"Reds. Silk cut are fucking disgusting."

"No they aren't! I like them!"

"You are one fucked up little man." Schuldich didn't answer; his eyes were shut, his mind searching out the nearest shopkeeper. He plied his trade for several minutes, and withdrew; certain salvation was on the way.

"Fixed?"

"Good things come to those who wait."

"Don't philosophise, it doesn't suit you." Schuldich stuck his tongue out, and Brad followed suit as he stubbed out the fag. "I want to go to bed."

"No! This is my birthday, and I will not let you go to sleep at nine!" He grabbed a sole survivor of the massacre of the cake, and waved it at Crawford. "Hair of the dog that bit ya. Eat." The doorbell interrupted them. Schuldich put puppy-dog eyes on, and looked at Brad.

"Pleeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaassssssssseeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee?"

"Fine, but only because it's your birthday!" Brad took the cake, pushed himself off the floor, and went to answer the door. Schuldich rolled onto his back and shut his eyes. He was feeling kinda sleepy himself; the cake having worked it's way through his body, creating a sugar haze wherever it went...

With his eyes still shut, he heard footsteps approaching across the carpet, and then someone sat down next to him. The familiar crinkling of cellophane being opened made him smile. Then the rasping of a lighter, and the faint smell of chemicals... Ah, the sounds of sweet heaven... He cracked open an eye.

"So, I take it you got the poor guy to bring up all that?" Brad handed him the lit cigarette, then took one of his own from the huge pack sitting next him. "He'll be bankrupt by the morning..." Yet again, the doorbell rang.

"And that's why I got **him** to bring the rest of the stuff! I'll get it this time." Schuldich pushed himself off the floor, and went out into the hallway, closely followed by Crawford. He padded up to the door, and pulled it open to reveal a bemused looking teenager carrying two large boxes branded with the label of some obscure supermarket chain.

"You ordered this stuff?"

"Yeah, thanks!" The boy handed over the boxes to Schuldich, who shut his emerald eyes briefly.

"Pleasure doing business with you!" The boy walked away down the corridor, not noticing, nor caring that he'd received no payment for the supplies.

Schuldich kicked the door shut with his heel as he turned round. Crawford raised an eyebrow. Farfello and Nagi were both standing at the doorway, both looking curiously at the two large boxes. They chinked as Schuldich strode past the Irishman, who stabbed experimentally at one as he passed. He dumped the boxes on the floor, and then flourished two handfuls of their contents at the other three men.

"Seeing as how it's my birthday, I suggest we finish these all by midnight!"

Farfello, Nagi and Crawford all showed different emotions, curiosity, surprise and a smirk, respectively. Nagi spoke first.

"I can't, under-age..." Schuldich contemplated this for a second.

"You're 16, right? Well, seeing as how it's German draught, then the rules of Germany apply, right? Congratulations, you're now officially two years past the legal age." Nagi brightened as Schuldich tossed a bottle to him. "Drink up."

"Yo, Farf? I'm taking it you like the Guinness. Catch." He took another can out the top box and lobbed it to Farfello, who wore a huge grin. It was the first time any of them had seen him smiling when he wasn't mutilating someone. He proceeded to crack it open with his knife.

"Irish beer hurts God! Alot!"

"And for the American among us...?" Schuldich looked at Crawford questioningly.

"Anything that's more alcoholic than beer."

"Wermut?" Schuldich dipped into German, preferring to not let Nagi know he had something way stronger than beer.

"Ja warum nicht?" Nagi was looking peeved in the corner. "Yeah, so what? You're not the only two who know German! And, before you say anything, I prefer to start slow, and then get onto the harder stuff. Kinda ease yourself in..."

"Bummeln Sie es. Gedacht war ich dort sicher." Schuldich resignedly tossed the bottle of green spirit to Crawford.

"Yeah, I know what that means too!" Nagi raised the can and drained it. "Pass another one."

"Hey! Where've the straws gone?" Brad's voice floated through from the kitchen, searching for essential drinking equipment. Nagi rolled his eyes, and went through to help, snagging another can of beer on the way out. Farfello was sitting cross-legged on the sofa, cradling his own bottle in his hands.

"Ah, the wondrous chemical that is alcohol." Schuldich grinned his grin-ish grin. Farfello grinned back, in a way much more disturbing. They sat in relative silence until Nagi returned from the kitchen, carrying several different glasses and straws and umbrellas. He set them all down on the cake trolley swiftly, lining everything up perfectly. Crawford followed straight after, carrying a few de-labelled bottles. Schuldich recognised one, and took it from Brad as he walked past. Curious, he opened the bottle and took a sip. It nearly made him wince.

"Damn, Crawly, where did you get this stuff?! Never figured you were that much of a law-breaker..."

"I've broken worse laws, as have all of us, on a nearly weekly basis. As for the booze, don't ask me." The last section of his words was tinged with disapproval as he frowned at Nagi.

"And who sold you that Naggels? I can only think of one person who would, and I told him not to sell it to underage people. Makes you go blind if it's distilled wrong." He added the last bit as Nagi stuck his tongue out.

"Really. And you know where I got it. Or at least you should do, you're supposed to have a good memory." Nagi switched into english, and a typical english accent flickered across his speech, stunning Schuldich into thought. "Remember now?"

"Never would've thought you had it in you Bübchen! Since when could you shut your mind off?" Schuldich handed him back the bottle.

"Anyone care to enlighten a few extremely confused men?" Farfello was looking bemused as he spoke. He thought Nagi sounded good with an english accent – he could almost pass for a native. Brad was sitting next to the cake trolley, looking equally confused.

"Well, one day I decided I wanted something a bit stronger than saki, so I happened to stroll into an off-license in a back street, where a charming english waiter obliged me by giving me some under-the-counter spirits."

"And, with my hair gelled back and a bit of make-up, I look different. And I needed the money for a few new gadgets, because a certain team-leader is **slightly** reserved about expenses..."

"Hey! You could've asked me! And in an off-license! If the police had found you, we'd all be in the shitter! Taketori doesn't care about us **that** much!" Crawford was ranting a little.

"Chill! I used a fake name! And if they had found us, they'd have gone to another lot of assassins." Nagi grinned at the thought of it. Brad was now looking distinctly raging.

"What name did you use?"

"Omi Tsukiyono. The bastard deserved it..." He shut his mouth and mind straight after he realised what he had said. Schuldich shook his head. He hadn't been able to get inside the youth's head to find out the rest of the sentence, damn Nagi's new abilities...

"Whatever. Just use those waiter skills to get me pissed before I work out the rest of you were going to say..." Nagi went straight to work, flipping a glass over and filling it with a red liquid. He handed it to Brad, and changed topic.

"So what we gonna do now?"

"Well, usually I'd find some decent porn somewhere, but I sense that that wouldn't be appreciated, so how about we all get hammered, then discuss it? Pass a beer over, will ya?" Nagi plucked a bottle out of the box, and flicked off the top with his thumbnail. Schuldich took the drink and took three inches off the top in one go. "Nice trick. You'll have to teach me how to do that."

About an hour later, they were sitting in a circle on the floor, watching an empty beer bottle spin. It landed on Schuldich. He groaned.

"Truth, dare or kiss?" Nagi, sitting opposite Schuldich, went chibi and grinned. He liked this game.

"Truth. I really don't want to know what you could think up for dare, and I draw the line at paedophilia."

"Baka! So what's his truth gonna be? Any ideas?" Farfello shrugged.

"How about where he hid my knife this morning?"

"Nah, that's boring. We need something more... revealing."

"Like what?" Nagi was at a loss.

"Like... Where did you get that corset?" Brad raised his eyebrows, and made an effort not to laugh as he spoke. Schuldich went red.

"What corset?"

"The one you wore last Saturday when you went out."

"Damn, I thought you were asleep! I got it from a 'friend' on indefinite loan."

"Insomnia helps a bit. Well, spin!" Schuldich reached forwards and spun the bottle hard, hard enough so it hit Farfello on the foot.

"That doesn't count!" He spun again, avoiding a drunken death stare. It landed on Nagi. "HA! Revenge is sweet..."

"Dare! And think of something that doesn't involve nudity, please!"

"Hmm. I prefer the 'involve nudity' bit." Farfello mused on this thought for a while, leering occasionally.

"Please, no! Anything but stripping!" Nagi was pleading, while wondering just why Farfello had said that...

"Fine then. Drink six shots of absinthe, in a row, or you're going to be naked." Schuldich nodded to himself. It sounded it pretty good to him. He stretched back, and picked up the half-empty bottle of absinthe and a shot glass. He put it out in front of the teenager.

Watching lazily, Brad grinned at the evil intent radiating from Farfello. Schuldich was pouring a shot for Nagi, who downed it. Again the glass was filled, and Nagi drunk again. They continued doing it for a while, till all six shots had been swallowed.

"Spin the bottle!" Nagi spun it, and it came to a slow halt pointing at Farfello.

"Kiss." The Irishman smiled. "Okay, but before we do this, rules: first time it lands on you, kiss. Second time, French, tongues, whatever you call it. Alright?"

Nagi looked positively terrified. He began to edge towards the left, seeking protection from Brad, who, to his utter surprise, laughed and pushed him towards the scarred man. Schuldich laughed as well, partly at the terror evident in Nagi's eyes, partly at the thoughts roaming at the surface of Farfello's mind.

Farfello looped his hand around the back of Nagi's neck, and pulled him closer, forcing him to throw his hands out for balance. His white lips brushed against the teenager's, a touch much lighter than Nagi expected for a crazed god-hater. They stayed there for a few more seconds; till Farfello released his hold enough for Nagi to pull back, glad it was over... some thoughts that had gone through his mind weren't exactly what he wanted anyone to know...and he needed full concentration to blackout his mind from Schu...He saw the grin pasted across the telepath's face. Fuck. He already knew.

"No!"

"No, what, Nagi?" Brad now grinned as well. Schu better not be telling him what he'd heard...

"Nothing! Nothing!" Farfello spun the bottle by pushing it round with his knife till it landed on Nagi.

"NO! That's so cheating!"

"Too bad Naggels. Well, truth, dare, or kiss?"

"Well, as I see it, you're screwed," Schuldich leered at this. " Whatever you pick. So, betwixt the devil, the deep blue sea, and Farfello." Nagi silently cursed Brad, the ever logical.

"Why?! Why me?!"

"Okay. How about you spin again, then if it lands on Brad, you take truth, on me, you choose dare, and Farfello, you choose him." Schuldich put forwards his solution in a rational tone of voice, but he knew that whatever fate decided, Nagi was going to be humiliated, exposed, or...or what?

He took a breath and spun again. It landed on Schuldich. The other three were having hysterics, and Schuldich gasped out:

"Clothes... off ... now!" Nagi sighed. No way was he gonna get outta this one. He pulled his t-shirt over his head, and still sitting down, wriggled off his jeans and boxers. He crossed his legs again, and tried to preserve some dignity. Jesus, it was cold...

"Come on! It's not that funny! Someone spin for me! Please?" Crawford leaned in and flicked the bottle round at high speed. It landed on Farfello.

"Truth. Or Dare. Tell me what my options are." Brad looked meaningfully at Nagi.

"What is it with you people?! I refuse! No!"

"Hmm. I'll be nice for once, truth then."

"Okaaaaaaayy... What's your real name?" Schuldich stopped laughing and looked quizzically at Farfello.

"Don't Brad. Let him keep his name secret." Nagi looked concerned. He saw the faint flicker of unsurity in the Irishman's eyes.

"Thanks for the defence Nagi, but I'm okay. Jay McKinnon. But don't call me that. That belongs to the boy I used to be." After he spoke he smiled at Nagi, silently thanking him for the protest. He spun, and it landed on Schuldich.

"Truth."

"What's your name?"

"Please, not that. It has too many memories."

"I told you mine. I lived through a hell too." Schuldich's green eyes deadened, and his shoulders sank down as he dredged up the associations he had with the past. The pain, the endless tests on the kid who claimed he knew what people really thought about him...

"I don't know. I never knew it. I was adopted by an asylum at age five, after my birth parents were judged unsuitable." He spun the bottle hard. It seemed to pick up on the suppressed violence in his actions, and spun fast enough to blur. Eventually, it stopped, pointing at Crawford.

"Truth." Still lost in his personal thoughts, Schuldich spoke gently to himself, asking himself a question he'd heard in his head, or maybe even someone in his past had asked him.

"How old were you when you first killed someone...?"

It wasn't directed at Brad, but he answered anyway.

"Eleven." Farfello and Nagi looked at Brad in shock.

"Eleven? That's younger than anyone here..." Nagi was wide-eyed in astonishment.

"It's late. I'm going to bed." Brad stood up hastily, and almost ran out the room. Schuldich looked after him in surprise, being the only one present that saw the tears flowing from under the glasses. He looked at Farfello and Nagi, suddenly sober.

"For my birthday present, spend the night together. No, don't argue. You both want it. And you have matching thought tracks. You'll be happy." Mentally, he added to Nagi – "Kissing is a good place to start." He picked up the bottle from the floor, and went after the American.

Schuldich tapped on Brad's bedroom door. He was worried. It was unlike the American to divulge any secrets from the past, or to cry, or to cry and try to hide it. Then again, hadn't the whole day been unlike reality? Since when had Crawford baked, smoked, got pissed, cried and hid?

And he'd killed at age eleven? That was young, maybe too young even to understand the consequences... And how had Nagi missed the fact that Brad had a criminal record, with the whole electronic world at his fingertips? Or had Taketori stepped in and wiped it from the world? Even so, what interest had Taketori in an eleven-year-old Crawford? He hadn't been registered in Estet till he was fifteen – what happened to those four years? Schuldich stared at the plain dark wood of the door. He knocked again.

"Brad? Brad? Open up... Are you alright? Brad?" No answer. He tried to scan through the American's mind, but found nothing but an empty space. Either he was not thinking, blocking his thoughts, or ... dead. The latter was not something he wanted to contemplate. Brad wasn't the type to kill himself... was he? Then again, he'd thought that Crawford didn't smoke.

Getting panicky, Schuldich pushed again the door with his weight behind it. The door was locked – Nagi had insisted on it when Farfello had moved in. Not that a mere lock would present any problem to a knife-wielding berserker. He pushed again, more in gesture than in an actual attempt to open the door.

He shut his eyes, and tapped into Nagi's mind. Hoping that the Irishman hadn't won Nagi over yet, he mentally tried to ask the telekinetic to open the lock. However, he was presented by images of Farfello taking off his shirt, and gave up trying to mind-talk. He stopped at the living room door, and shouted through it.

"Hey, you two, I need to come in, so make sure you're decent..."

"You can come in now..." Nagi called back, sounding breathless. Schuldich pushed open the door. The two were flushed, an healthy glow on Nagi, a strange pale pink over Farfello's back and face, wrapped up in each other's arms on the couch, hastily covered with clothes from the floor. Farfello was looking with hatred at Schuldich, obviously not enjoying the brief interlude.

"Sorry to interrupt, but something's up with Brad, and he's locked his door. I can't get into his thoughts..." Schuldich hoped he didn't sound to desperate to get into Crawford's bedroom, but considering the position the couple on the sofa were in, they couldn't really get back at him.

"Sure, I'll do it." Nagi raised one hand to his temples, and shut his eyes. A few seconds later, he opened his eyes again and smiled. "Done." The teenager wound his arms around Farfello's hips, and drew the Irishman closer as Schuldich left the room to faint panting noises. Schuldich gripped the green glass bottle tighter in his hand, and breathed out shakily as he pushed open Brad's bedroom door.

The room was dark, drawn curtains filtering out most of the light, but the faint orange glow of Tokyo streetlights came through. Everything was neat and organised; shelves full of leather-bound books lined the walls. A double bed took up most of the space in the room, but didn't make it claustrophobic. A dark figure lay on the bed, partially curled up in the foetal position. It shook gently as saline tears stained the pillows.

"Brad? Brad, you okay?" Schuldich shut the door behind him, and sat down gently on the edge of the bed, trying to get a look at Brad's face, but the light was too dark to make out more than the basic features. With the hand not holding the bottle, he reached out, and touched a shaking shoulder, which froze under his touch.

"Hey, Brad, it's me. What's wrong?" His tone was gentle, as though he was speaking to a frightened child. Essentially, he was. But still, no answer.

"Brad, please, tell me what's wrong. If you don't tell, I can't help."

"You can't." A small voice spoke through the tears; almost unrecognisable as the self-confident American he'd been twenty minutes ago.

"Why not?" Schuldich was worried. Although Brad wasn't dead, he still wasn't picking up on any thoughts.

"It's already happened." The same tiny voice again.

"What has? Brad?" Schuldich was getting beyond worried.

"I killed him." Three words never seemed so out of place. A tide of regret, hate and fear mingled with the vowels and syllables, all seeming to source from a child-like voice. Schuldich was about to ask whom Crawford had killed, or more to the point, who had Brad killed that had made him cry, but Brad spoke again.

"I can't tell you..." God, he sounded like a kid who'd kept a terrible secret...

"Can you show me?" Schuldich was dreading having to delve into a friend's mind, and such an emotionally unstable mind at that. He'd long ago sorted out Farfello's mind, he knew the twisted neural pathways, but to search for a memory in Crawford's head was a new experience. An almost imperceptible nod from Brad, and he threw himself into the other's mind.

He filtered past images and flashes of sound, light, emotion, each touching him in unforgettable ways, he was experiencing Crawford's life backwards, and at high-speed. He'd long since managed to separate his life from his subjects. He'd tried it in the asylum, and had nearly gone insane, and sometimes still had nightmares of the madman's life. Still he dived on and on through memories, trying to home in on certain emotions, till he found himself in a long corridor, lined with paintings.

_It was semi-dark, dark oak panels and plush red carpet making a rich room even richer, more luxurious. All along the walls were paintings he seemed to remember, as though he'd seen them a long time ago – all portraits of stern posed ancestors, each glaring down with authority and disdain upon it's admirer. The ceiling was high up, the detailed alabaster curling and scrolling around the chandelier that illuminated the corridor. A faint noise reached his ears, a very quiet creaking noise, as though a creaking door was being heard through several layers of cotton wool. White light penetrated the half-dark of the corridor, and the silhouette of a tall man in glasses appeared. He couldn't see the expression on the face, but the stance was one of arrogance and self-confidence. The man stood at the end of the corridor, and turned to face him. A sudden flow of rage and fear consumed him, his blood boiling with rage at this cocky man, but so scared of him at the same time, a product of endless respect for elders drilled into him at an early age. Warmth trickled down his face, tears pouring down from eyes that wished a painful death upon the man in front of him. He raised his arm involuntarily, and noticed with shock the pale pink rounded flesh of a child, contrasted with the sleek shiny barrel of the gun he held. The paintings continued to look on as the hand took aim, and another hand came into vision, and steadied the gun hand. Straight along the barrel, lined up perfectly with the forehead of the man. In the dim light, a shining white set of even teeth appeared in a mocking grin. The silhouette of the man spread its arms in elegant supplication, but a crude gesture all the same, daring him to squeeze down on the trigger. An equally mocking laugh fell from that perfect mouth, and as it came to an end, a silky smooth, rich voice emerged; it's velvety tone stroking his very ears, matching the plush surroundings._

"_Can you boy? No, you can't, won't, will you? A child must obey his parents." And further and further the rage rose, littling the other emotions into oblivion, only the pure freedom of anger flew through his mind, a cleansing flow of hate and disgust for what this man was, what he had done. Without so much as blinking, a child's voice echoed down the corridor, in a perfect reply that forbade all disagreement and retort._

"Not anymore. I'm not your child." His finger jerked, and the bullet flew from the chamber, speeding through the air, dead straight to it's target, hitting the temple of the man just as the muffled report of the gun reverberated in his mind.


	2. Confessions Of a Child

Black Narcissus – Confessions of a Child 

_Disclaimer – None of the characters are mine; I'm not making any money by writing this._

Schuldich pulled himself out of Brad faster than he had ever done before, the memory hanging in the air, threatening to descend upon the telepath with greater force, and drag him deeper and deeper into the next set of memories. The same half-dark swirled around him, and he was sitting on the bed again, staring at the face of the child he'd been in the memories.

The crying grew quieter as Schuldich leaned forward, trying to find some shard of recognition, that the boy in the corridor had been Crawford – but no hint of affirmation came. He shifted further onto the bed, and propped himself up on one arm, now lying parallel to Brad.

"You shot your father?" He was careful not to add any emotion to his voice – anger, disbelief, or sorrow would merely isolate Brad from him, disallowing him to connect in any way. He watched the face and thoughts of the man in front of him intently, scanning frantically for any indication that his comment had been taken as a reproach.

Brad nodded a second before he spoke, taking deep breaths, trying to clear his voice, bring it back to something resembling normality.

"Yes. I won't regret or forget it. Ever." Schuldich could feel the pent up rage contained in these words, and blessed with telepathy could pick his way round the invisible traps the words contained.

"I'm not saying you should – Can you tell me why…" He cut off suddenly as Crawford raised his face slightly, for the first time making eye contact. The usually mellow or sincere hazel they usually were was darkened by the semi-light, but the tears and the raw emotion pouring through them wove round him, transfixing him in mid-sentence, startling him into silence. He kept staring into those twin dark pools of pure amber, trying desperately hard not to be dragged back by curiosity into the recesses of Brad's memories. A hard decisive voice shattered any desire to ever to go there again.

"He hurt me."

Realisation struck through the core of Schuldich's soul, spearing him again from those burning eyes… He hadn't just been hurt…

"Oh – Oh Brad!" He could hear the pity in his voice, but couldn't take it back. He'd survived memories of a madman in the asylum who'd abused children…He could feel both sides of the equation now, known a perpetrator and a victim. Leaving the glass bottle by his side, he wrapped both arms around his friend and pulled him close, as though he was trying to protect him from his own past and memories.

Brad started crying again at the contact and the inevitable reliving of the experience that came with the retelling. Schuldich now felt the ghost emotions he'd felt in the memory come pouring back through him and as he struggled against the current, he inadvertently fell back in.

Again, he shook himself free of the clutches of the memory, and was back in reality again, his arms tightly locked around Brad, the sobbing American's face buried in his shoulder. How in the name of anything was he supposed to react? Comforting words? A 'he-deserved-it-you-didn't' speech? For once, the telepath had no idea. Technically, he'd been abused through other's memories, but never in person, how could he even compare his personal hells with Brad's? Raped by his father –

"Have you ever seen anyone's memories like mine?" He was too deep in his thoughts to have noticed the change in tone in the crying, now more controlled, and a clearer voice. Schuldich thought over for a second. Yes, he had…

"Once, while I was in an asylum. I shared a cell with a man who'd done many bad things, murder, arson, rape. I practised mind reading on him for two years. I still have nightmares of what I saw in his head. He wasn't a victim, but the one who did it." Here he felt Brad's thoughts swing widely, and continued fast, somehow wanting to tell his side before Crawford shut him out.

"I hated him more than anything. More than the people who kept me in there, more than myself. Some days when he used to talk to himself, going on about what he'd done to children, I found myself so close to pulverising his brain, making him turn in on himself, but I stopped, scared by the threat of a longer time incarcerated. He was boasting about some poor child, Joseph, or Jacob…"

The sobbing stopped suddenly. Brad pushed himself back from Schuldich, and stared straight into his viridian eyes.

"What was his name?" It was a cold hard tone, but it threatened tears.

" I don't know. I don't think I was ever told."

"You must know. You saw his memories. Someone would have known it. Screamed it." Schuldich heard the desperate urgency in his voice, and scoured his memory for any remnant of a name. He found shards of sanity in that particular collection of memories, and ran backwards and forwards through them, leaping over pools of black that hid the more disturbing recollections of a paedophile. He came out of his search.

"I can't find anything…" He felt Brad take in a shaking breath.

"Show me what he looked like."

"Why? He's dead now…"

"That's what I thought."

"What? Brad, I don't under - " Schuldich was as loathe to show himself that face, as to show the American.

"My middle name is Jacob." Brad had regained his amazing control over his emotions, continually suppressing them, and was continuing to do so now, his face devoid of any expression, except for determination. "Show me his face. I want to know." Schuldich, silently raised his hand to Crawford's forehead, and let the string of images flow through him. Flashes of a dark-haired man, brown eyes, stubble, and a scar running from the corner of his right eye to the back of his ear. Snatches of sound came through, but disjointed with the memories, subtle manic laughter with tears, calm voice with laughing mouth.

Schuldich stopped the river of memories, and took his hand away, doubts over what he'd just done flooding him. It made sense, the raven black hair and the pale scar from the bullet. He wrapped his arms around the now silent Brad again, and continued speaking.

"It's him, I know. He's dead now, I killed him. After a meal, I followed him to the washroom, and broke his skull against a mirror, over and over again. They had to pull me off his corpse. They couldn't recognise who he was until they checked some file." He finished his narrative quickly, not adding how he'd been kept in for another four years in a straightjacket, or that he'd continually fucked with the 'doctor's' heads after that.

"Thank you."

Schuldich couldn't say anything more in face of those two words. It didn't seem appropriate somehow. Brad curled up tighter against Schuldich, looping his arms around his neck and burying his hands deep in the wild ginger hair. Schuldich untangled an arm, and removed Crawford's glasses, placing them on the table beside the bed. Reaching down past his knees, he tugged the blanket on the bed out from under them and spread it across them both. To do so, he had to take one arm off Crawford, feeling the coldness flood in.

"Schu –"

"Shhhh, sleep. I'm here, no-one can hurt you…" He replaced his arm about the American, emphasising the protective meaning of his words.

"No – it's not that. Please, tell me your name…"

"I…" Schuldich stopped. Would it really matter against all the secrets aired tonight? Could it ever seem that significant? But why not? An unwillingness to dig up the past? To heal, you must feel. That was what all the cheap trashy talk show hosts said; but maybe it was right, maybe somehow, they'd stumbled across an inevitable truth. Could it really hurt so bad as he thought it would? Almost certainly.

But hey, hadn't he carried more than that?

"Saul. But go to sleep now." With his last few words, Schuldich slipped gently into the glowing mass of thoughts in Brad's mind, smoothly, but forcefully cutting the links that touched a festering grey-green sphere that flickered with black streaks of painful memories. And so he effectively removed the recollections from conscious thought, at least while he was still there.

Schuldich felt the mind around him relax, and pass into a quiet sleep, devoid of natural dreams. Gently, ever so gently, he played a continuous loop of what he thought the pair of them looked like from above, as though in Crawford's dream, he was floating above the bed.

Through the night, Schuldich stayed awake. Part of his thoughts were taken up with isolating the memories that threatened to re-awaken in Bradley's dreams, as much as he hated handling them. Contrary to popular belief, he didn't revel in modifying people's minds. He only really did it when it was necessary – when Farfello was beserking and couldn't be stopped, when Taketori was about to kill him in another golf club rage, when his friend and leader was on the edge of reason, and possibly his life.

The rest of his thoughts were taken up with what had passed between his leader and himself. He didn't know how things would turn out. Would Brad admit he was human and talk more often? This was quite a scary prospect in itself. Schuldich was used to Crawford being a solid, icy leader who would tell you what to do, and how. If he started talking, Schuldich wasn't sure he could continue being his usual self; somehow he didn't think he could be so smug and arrogant around a Bradley he knew might get hurt… The conclusion to that thought made him think. He hadn't really worried if Brad had got hurt before. Physically, yes, if Brad died – and reliable oracles are hard to come by – Schuldich was sure to get the blame for not protecting him, and so didn't let violence get that far, but… Emotionally? To tell the truth, he'd never really thought of Brad as the kind of person who got emotions. He'd never registered Crawford feeling anything before. Sure, he had always known that Crawford got real pissed off if someone screwed up, but anger was different – it wasn't really an emotion, more like a primal reaction…

And what if he didn't remember? Supposing the alcohol would wipe his memory? And he never remembered anything that either had said or done… Schuldich felt himself go pale. It would be even harder to live like that than if Crawford remembered. He had no idea what he'd do. For a start, Brad would probably try to knock him out for sleeping in his bed, then Schuldich would be left on edge forever, not knowing if an noise or vision would trigger the alcohol buried memory, and what the hell he would do if it did. And he'd probably try to protect the oracle, then Brad would demand what he was doing and Schuldich couldn't say, or if he did, then Brad would probably shut himself up again once he knew that Schuldich knew he'd been abused.

All in all, Schuldich had no idea what the fuck he could do. Or would do.

The morning came. Slowly, inch-by-inch it rose up through the shut curtains, and Schuldich's fear of the deciding day rose up a million times faster than the sun. As the light intensity increased, Schuldich watched the sleeping Crawford. He hadn't moved the entire night; his hands had remained clenched in his hair, meaning the telepath couldn't have moved, even if he wanted to. At least – not unless he used telepathy, and that he couldn't bring himself to do. His talent had been described as 'mind-fucking' before, and Bradley had more than his fair share of having a fucked up mind. Schuldich settled down and waited.


End file.
